


Even

by ABadPlanWellExecuted



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABadPlanWellExecuted/pseuds/ABadPlanWellExecuted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he kisses her, it isn’t on the cheek or hand or forehead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even

The first time he kisses her, it isn’t on the cheek or hand or forehead.  It’s not even on the mouth, which is usually the first stop if one is following the polite and accepted order of this sort of thing.  No, the first time he kisses her, it’s on the neck. 

Right at the spot her neck joins her left shoulder, to be precise.  It also takes nearly everyone in the room by surprise—the snooty, straight-laced architecture expert who’s been showing them around the prized museum of this rather prudish society, her equally prim and proper assistant, the two other couples on tour with them, and Jack, who is the only one to top off his wide eyes and dropped jaw with an enthusiastic two thumbs up.

It’s something of a shock to the Doctor as well, whose brain catches up with his lips a full three seconds after the deed is done.  The only person who doesn’t seem remotely perturbed is Rose, still grinning from the rather brilliant quip she’d just made, the same brilliant quip that his mouth apparently found quite inspirational.

It’s been one of those days with touching, a lot of touching, and honestly, those days are becoming so regular and routine that he can sort of see how his mouth lost track of things.  There was the arm-in-arm walking, the leaning, and the playful nudges—all standard fare nowadays.  He grabbed her hand to lead her to something particularly fantastic he wanted to show her and then just sort of forgot to let go, and she was absently stroking his thumb with hers, probably without even thinking about it.  And well, when she wanted a piece of gum, it was only natural that she’d stick a hand into his trouser pocket.  (Honestly, the pockets were transdimensional, so it wasn’t like she was copping a feel.  Jack needn’t have looked so delightfully scandalized.) 

And if he slung an arm over her shoulder in response to the interested looks of a couple of young men in sharp suits and then, when she leaned her head against his shoulder and put her own arm around his waist, if he'd just sort of left it there for most of the tour, that wasn't really all that bad, now was it?  Just friendly, that.

The kiss though.  The kiss was something else.

He could still feel it, the sensations playing on repeat in his head, every synapse responsible for that particular memory burning bright.  The group had paused at a landing halfway up a broad flight of stairs.  Rose was on the step above him.  She made her clever retort and flashed that grin at him over her shoulder, and without another thought, he’d smiled back, leaning forward press his affection against her warm skin.  And then, worst of all, he lingered there a second too long for it to be a peck, something he could brush off with the ridiculous excuse of accidentally missing her cheek.

What is he supposed to say now?  Rapid fire, his brain goes through a litany of possible responses, because any moment now, she’ll notice what has happened.  What he’s done.

_It was just because of what you said, that funny thing you said.  Just a product of the moment, that’s all.  It was just because I was happy, because you make me so happy._

_You make me so happy._

There’s no hope for him.

He sees it, the instant she realizes, the flicker of uncertainty and confusion.  Her hand creeping up to touch the spot his lips recently vacated. 

“I,” he tries to explain.  “I, um.”

“ _Ahem_ ,” says the architect, arching an elegantly sculpted eyebrow above the cold metal rim of her glasses, “sir, if you would be so kind as to _redirect your attention_ to the reliefs in the aedicule, I shall finish this portion of the tour.”

He gives a tight nod in reply and looks at those reliefs.  In fact, he looks the hell out of them—any excuse to avoid the gaze of the girl with the dark eyes looking at him.

The architect finally stops talking and, with one last stern sniff in his direction, directs the group to follow her.  In a daze of panic and mortification, he shuffles along after.

Rose falls into step beside him.  “Well?” she mutters in a whispered aside.

“Well what?”  Apparently, he’s decided to go with the clueless approach.  Wonderful. 

“Didn’t expect you to be so…so…”

(A dozen adjectives for pervy leap to the forefront of his mind in the time it takes her to finish her sentence, and he feels mildly lightheaded.)

“…slipshod.” 

This pulls him up short.  “What?”

She stops as well, fists her hands on her hips.  “It’s just sloppy work, is what.” 

When he only stares at her blankly, she huffs and turns her back on him.  “C’mon, you can’t leave it uneven.”  With one hand, she sweeps her hair to the left, covering the skin he'd kissed and baring the other shoulder.  Her head is turned so that he can see her cheek curve into her soft smile, the glint as she watches him out of the corner of her eye.  “Do this side, too.”


End file.
